The many loves of John Watson, MBChB
by LittlePippin76
Summary: And episodic hopefully look at the many dates that luckless John Watson has been on. I'm hoping for humour and friendship, but I never can tell how these things are going to end up!
1. Angel

**Something new, and hopefully episodic from me. I was planning to start publishing after Series 2, but I'm stupidly impatient.**

**I'd like to know what you think.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

Angel

John hummed to himself as he ironed the front of his new shirt. He had that light, hopeful feeling that gave him a spring in his step. An _annoying_ spring in his step as Sherlock had told him on many occasions, but he was able to shrug this off as just a general part of Sherlock's grumpy bitterness.

Sherlock came in now and stood by the kitchen table, watching him iron.

John got the distinct impression that he was trying to decide which was the most irritating of the several things he had to say.

"So, tonight's the night you go out with the twelve-year-old, is it?"

"She's not twelve!" John snapped, immediately wishing he was able to just rise above it.

"She's closer to twelve than she is to thirty-nine."

"No she's not!"

Sherlock smiled.

"I'll let you work it out on your fingers, shall I?"

John pulled a face and turned the iron off. He paused and frowned for a moment.

"OK, she's two years closer to twelve than she is to thirty-nine…"

"Only one year, actually…"

"That's not the point! I don't have to date thirty-nine-year olds! Just because I happen to be thirty-nine doesn't mean that everyone I ever date has to be too!"

"I wonder what attracted her to you. Maybe she just likes old men?"

"I'm hardly old!"

"I meant _older._ Obviously. Why are you ironing your new shirt?"

"Because it was creased from the bag."

"It's a Diesel shirt. Men who wear Diesel shirts don't iron them. Let me have a look!" he snatched the article from John's hands.

"Hey! Careful!"

"It looks like acid's been spilled on it."

"It's meant to look like that! It's the _design_."

Sherlock smiled at him.

"I'm sure you'll look personally natural with your child-bride when wearing this, John."

John snatched it back and stomped off.

"What's her name?" Sherlock called after him.

"Her name is completely irrelevant!" John replied as he marched up the stairs.

Her name was Angel.

John had been utterly astonished when he suddenly realised he was going on a date with a twenty-five year old beauty called Angel. She was properly beautiful too. She had that sort of beauty that made him feel vaguely peculiar, as if she was not human, without any of the normal human wrinkles and bumps and stretches and scars, but instead was some kind of higher being just descending to visit with mere mortals for a while. She'd laughed at something ridiculous he'd said, showing her very white teeth through her soft pink lips, and he'd been intoxicated.

Then she'd told him her name was Angel and he briefly entertained the idea that she was an actual angel, and in a flash he'd realised that it would be a completely waste not to take a chance with her right there and then.

She'd accepted, and he'd gibbered at the sight of her deep, blue eyes, peeping through her long, blonde eyelashes. She'd smiled again, slowly and knowingly. They'd exchanged numbers, she'd suggested a club that she'd like to go to and the whole thing took maybe three minutes. He'd stood there for a while trying to piece together what had just happened.

It was only for a moment though, as the realisation hit him that he was going on a date with a twenty-five year old beauty called Angel, and he would need to a) work out what to wear, b) try not to appear to be too old, and c) try to avoid letting Sherlock know any of the details at all.

Having decided on this plan, he walked off with a spring in his step and a smile on his face, and Sherlock had deduced pretty much everything within about nine seconds of seeing him next. He'd then spent the next two days needling, mocking and annoying him, while slowly squeezing out all the details that he could.

The only thing that John had kept entirely to himself was her name. He wasn't sure why, but he had the sneaking suspicion that if Sherlock found out that her name was Angel, he'd laugh about it for at least a week.

He got ready, checked the address of the bar where he was going to meet her, checked his wallet for cash and cards, grabbed his phone (but turned it off) and set off down the stairs.

"Have a nice time with your _Angel_!" Sherlock called from the living room while he walked past.

"I will! Thank you!" He called back, silently cursing. As he got onto the street and hailed a cab, he prayed somewhat desperately that Sherlock wouldn't show up at any point.

oOo

The pub was packed tight and bright and bustling in the Soho street. John walked around it twice, unable to find Angel, and growing more confident that the whole thing was a practical joke and that he was being played as the fool.

Suddenly a bright and cheerful voice sounded through the crowds.

"John? John!" and there she was, looking dazzling. "Hi! Sorry! I was talking with my friends and didn't see you for a moment."

"Oh! Hi! No, that's fine, I've just got here. Hi! How are you? Today. How are you today? Good day?"

She smiled. "I'm fine. Do you want to meet the others?"

"Others? I mean, yes, OK then!"

He was pulled to a table at the side of the bar with a largish party squeezed around it. He listened to a list of names, and a few job titles, not really knowing who went with which title. There seemed to be a disproportionate numbers of designers there too. Everyone smiled at him and waved. He smiled and nodded and looked at Angel as she finally finished the introductions.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked.

She wrinkled her nose, which made her look even more adorable. She nodded.

"A quick one, before we leave for the pub?" she said, as if this was a question rather than an answer. "I'll have a vodka and coke please. I'll come with you, there's no room here and it's too noisy?"

He nodded and they headed towards the bar. John's face burned every second that he had to wait to be served. The whole place seemed to be full of noisy, confident people wearing invisible 'notice me' signs, while his whole look seemed to be saying 'no really, after you…"

Eventually he was served and turned to give Angel a drink to find her deep in conversation with a short, dark haired woman. He waited for a while before attracting her attention.

"Oh, John, this is Sonja, she's a designer."

"Pleased to meet you! Would you like a drink?"

She stared at him, looking almost affronted that he'd spoken to her.

"No, I'm fine, thanks. I'm heading off to the club now. Will you be there?"

"We're coming later," Angel told her.

Sonja gave her a strange air-kiss on each cheek, and then headed off to join the cool kids. John got knocked and bustled by the crowd surging to and from the bar.

Angel turned her deep, blue smile onto him and he suddenly felt light and calm and completely alone again. He gave her drink to her.

An hour later and he was feeling less alone. He was feeling more as if he was surrounded by _everybody in the world_ staring at him, and they were all wondering what the hell he was dong on the dance-floor.

He couldn't work out what he was doing on the dance-floor.

He very much wished he wasn't on the dance-floor.

Angel was still there, in front of him, arms in the air, eyes closed, hair falling over her face, frowning and _dancing_ to the beat of the music.

He assumed that there was music somewhere; he could hear nothing beyond the deep, rhythmic sound from the sub-woofers.

Every now and again he realised that as he was on the dance-floor, he ought to be trying at least to do some kind of dancing, but all he could manage was a little shuffle with occasional side-step followed by a moment of crushing self-awareness.

He told himself over and over that nobody else was remotely interested in him. No-one else was looking at him! They were all deeply engrossed in the music and barely aware of him at all. He knew this because he was being knocked into, pushed, and trampled on fairly regularly. He did another little shuffle and decided that he wasn't nearly drunk enough for any of this nonsense.

"Drink?" he yelled at Angel.

She frowned at him.

"Drink?" he yelled again, miming at her.

Her nose wrinkled again, and she nodded. She took his hand and led him from the floor, and he was really grateful as his sense of direction was shot to hell at this point. She stood by a pillar and fanned her face with her hand.

"I need a break anyhow," she said.

"What?"

"The bar's over there!" she yelled.

John located it and headed off.

He wondered how any of the people at the bar were being served without having ID. Every one of them looked as though they could still be in school. There was a mirror above the bar and he caught sight of an old man standing among the children, looking pale, gray-haired and red eyed. It took him a second to realise it was him.

He ordered many drinks.

At about midnight, he left the dance floor for the last time, and stood by a pillar to watch Angel as she danced with all her friends, laughing and joking with them. Her fair hair was flying and catching the coloured lights and she seemed to look even more energised as the night went on. He hummed and kicked at his foot for an hour.

At half past one, the lights went on, and Angel and her friends looked disappointed that the night was over. They seemed to quickly decide that the night wasn't over, and she came to find him to tell him they were all going on to a late-pub.

"OK," he said, longing for his duvet.

She laughed and pulled him towards the street.

She held his hand as they followed the group down the road, which John thought was a touching, but fairly pointless gesture. He thought they must look like a girl taking her geriatric grandfather out for a day-trip. He sat in the pub and the conversation got lively and much laughter was had as Angel and her friends talked about other nights with mutual acquaintances.

He was nudged awake.

"Are you OK, John?" Angel asked him.

"What? Oh! Yes! I wasn't asleep! I wasn't, I was just…" he looked at the group of youths around the table and realised that this lie wasn't going anywhere.

Angel smiled.

"I'm getting tired myself anyhow," she said.

"Oh! OK, well if you're sure, I'll see you home."

She wrinkled her nose and smiled and stood up to let him put her coat on her. They said their goodnights and walked together to find a cab.

They drove in silence to her flat, a small place in a converted Victorian semi-detached house. It looked nice, John thought as the cab pulled up.

She turned to him.

"I don't know if… I mean… I'd invite you in but…"

"Actually, I have to go anyway, Angel. This has been nice! I've had a really nice night, so thank you for that! It's been fun! But I think now…"

"Yeah."

"So goodbye then."

"Yeah. Thanks John." She kissed him on his cheek and got out of the cab.

"Just wait here a sec, mate," he said to the cabbie. "Let's just see her get inside."

The house door opened and closed behind her.

"Where next, mate?" the cabbie said.

"Oh! Home! Please God home! Just… home now."

"Yeah. And where's that?"

He could see the living room light on from the street outside, but was too tired to care. He let himself in and trudged up the stairs, wondering whether to bother going in or whether to just walk on up the stairs and bury himself in his bed for the next thirty-six hours.

"You're back late then," Sherlock called as he got to the top of the stairs.

He sighed and went into the living room. Sherlock turned and started to say something, but before he could he burst out laughing.

John stood there and let himself be laughed at for a bit.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, calming down. "So. Not exactly how you'd envisaged it then."

"No! It was fine. Nice even."

Sherlock came over and took John's coat off, slapping him on the back.

"Never mind, John. I'm sure there are other Angels out there somewhere. Hundreds of them."

"Yeah, you're probably right. You're can fit thousands on a pin-head apparently."

"There you are then."

"Though I think I might wait for the rest of them to mature a little bit. I mean, she was really nice, really, really nice! It's just… it's amazing how young people can make you feel really, really old."

"Do you want a cup of tea and to hear about what I've been doing?" Sherlock offered.

John stared at him.

"I don't know. Do I?" he asked.

"Of course you do!"

Sherlock pushed him gently down onto the sofa, picked up one foot at a time, pulling off John's shoes and putting his feet up on the coffee table.

"Right, remember that time we were in that wood in Sussex, and we had some trouble with the mud and blood separation…"

John closed his eyes and sighed and let the mud and blood experiment slowly lull him to sleep.


	2. Bella

Bella

In retrospect, John thought, it may have been a mistake to bring Bella to Angelo's. He had chosen it on the spur of the moment, surprised by the fact that Bella readily agreed to a date, and further thrown that she was quite free that very evening, giving John no time to plan anything at all. And to be fair, Angelo's was a nice little place, not too fancy, not too plain, the service was prompt and the food was delicious.

The trouble was, as John had temporarily forgotten, Angelo was still under the impression that John was the love of his Sherlock's life, and therefore turning up with a woman caused him to believe that John was unfaithful and shamelessly flaunting his infidelity. The man's loyalty was unshakable, and the service had suffered from wry looks and short answers, and John suspected that Bella was beginning to notice the distinctly cold atmosphere towards them.

It was fortunate that Angelo simply couldn't bring himself to serve food that was anything less than excellent, so the goat's cheese tart with home-made onion marmalade had pretty much saved the date.

His second mistake had been to leave while Sherlock was in the middle of a case. Well, 'middle' was inaccurate. He was at the start of a case, and John had not known about it when he'd arranged his evening with Bella.

"Well you know now!" Sherlock had told him.

"So? What do you want me to do about it? Cancel?"

"Yes! That's exactly what you should do about it!"

"I'm not cancelling a date just because you happen to have got something on!"

"But we work together now!"

"No, you work together! I get shouted at a lot!"

"That's helpful to me!"

"Ah. You're starting early, I see."

"Here, here is your phone. Call her and postpone a day. The case shouldn't take long, it seems fairly simple."

"Then you don't need me. I'm going to get ready."

"For coming to work?"

"No!"

Sherlock had sulked, stamped, shouted and eventually, had stormed out. John had had a couple of hours of quiet, and then the texts had started.

'_Why the lodge? SH'_

He'd answered the first one.

'_I have no idea. I'm not there.'_

'_You should be! SH'_

'_Don't initial your texts, your name comes up on the screen. JW'_

'_But why the lodge?'_

'_Don't know, don't care. Goodnight.'_

He'd wondered about turning his phone off, but decided against. He set it to silent, and headed out.

The texts had not stopped coming, and his phone was vibrating against his leg every few minutes.

They were waiting for the main course when Bella noticed.

"Do you need to answer your phone?" she asked.

"Oh, no; they're just texts. I can read them later. It's just… well, I can't turn my phone off because of the doctor thing." He just about managed not to blush at the lie.

He honestly didn't know why he didn't turn his phone off. He supposed it was because he'd seen Sherlock desperate before, and if the case did turn bad, and he was really, properly needed, he probably would go. Probably.

Well, definitely.

But it was apparently an easy case, so he didn't need to worry too much.

He became aware that Bella had been talking for a while and he had no earthly clue about what. He was saved by Angelo bringing the main course.

"Wow! This looks great!" he said, smiling manically. "Thanks, Angelo!"

Angelo gave him a cold stare and a shrug.

John turned his manic smile to Bella.

"So," he said. "You were telling me about your kids…"

Bella was a child-minder, and had been for twelve years. She remembered every single child she'd ever cared for and was clearly prepared to tell John about all of them.

He honestly didn't mind. Bella was passionate about her job, and really adored who she worked with. It was nice to hear her gush about them all, and he found himself wondering whether Bella wanted to settle down and perhaps have some children of her own to adore. He smiled as he ate and listened.

After about ten minutes, it had begun to wear a little bit thin. He was sure that Olivia would indeed be a champion flute player at some point in her life, but even if she wasn't, she'd probably be quite happy. And if he was really and truly honest, he didn't really care whether she was or not.

His phone buzzed again.

"Sorry, Bella, I'm sorry, but could you excuse me for a moment?"

She nodded and smiled and he headed into the Gents and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

There were forty-three texts.

'_Lestrade, need to watch Bailey. Don't trust one jot. SH.'_

'_Sorry, miss-sent text. Ignore. Enjoy date.'_

'_Though do you know of any fishmonger in Chelsea?'_

'_Don't worry if not. Don't disturb date to check.'_

'_On the internet on your phone I meant. No need. I can wait.'_

John rolled his eyes, wondering whether Sherlock would remember that he had Google on his own Blackberry.

He scrolled through the next ten or so.

'_Call when you're on a break.'_

He pondered what sort of dates Sherlock had observed during which people took breaks. He then realised he'd been hiding in the loo for the past five minutes and cursed. He scrolled through a few more but became slightly concerned.

'_John, may need to call you in a bite.'_

'_Bit.'_

'_John, wouldn't ask, but am desperate. Can you call?'_

'_Are you reading those?'_

'_Hav'_

'_Have to Lest.'_

'_Lestrade busy. Damn.'_

Then nothing for ten minutes. Then:

'_John need hel'_

John cursed, gave in to the inevitable, and called Sherlock. There wasn't an immediate answer, and when the call was accepted, John could hear noise and commotion before he could hear Sherlock. There was the noise of a busy street, feet running, then finally Sherlock, panting.

"John, can't talk now. Call you back."

And the line went dead.

John stood and thought about this for a moment or two, and then another customer walked into the loos and he decided he could do nothing at all for the time being, and he ought to return to Bella.

She looked a little concerned as he returned to the table.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

"What? Oh, yes. Yes. Now where were we? Er, Aaron wasn't it?"

"Oh, now my Aaron's gorgeous! Such lovely brown eyes! And he's such a little charmer…"

John's eyes drifted to the window where there seemed to be a commotion in the street. He frowned, and then jumped as a consulting detective ran past the window, sprinting hard. He was quickly followed by a very angry man and John was almost sure he saw the flash of a knife.

"And you'll never guess what he said to me… Where are you going?"

He looked sheepishly at Bella.

"Sorry, really sorry, I've just got to…" he got to the door. "Sorry! I'll be back… just…. Order something nice…" and he was gone.

The chase was hard, and John wished that he was just a little taller and a little fitter. He had them both quickly in sight though, and he rejoiced that he was at least the freshest of the three. He paid slight attention to where people and cars were, but mostly he focussed on his quarry.

Sherlock turned into a side road causing his pursuer to stumble as he turned. John was ready for it though, and he closed the gap between them to a few meters. He changed rhythm, struck out, leapt and grabbed, bringing the man down hard. There was a slight scuffle as John got better purchase, and he knocked the knife to the ground and pulled both arms back and held them firmly, planting his knee on the man's lower back.

Sherlock came back, panting hard.

He nodded at John and paced for a moment.

"Thanks for following," he panted.

John nodded, panting too. "You would have to run right past the restaurant, wouldn't you!"

"You didn't call me back!" He held a hand up and swallowed and dialled on his phone. "Lestrade? Got him, disarmed him." He sniffed and panted. "Well, technically I had help. Will you come? Er…" he looked at John. "Are we still on Turnbull Street?"

"Yep. Anytime soon would be nice."

"Turnbull Street," he said into his phone. "Come soon. John's whining." He hung up and smiled at John. "Date going well?"

John smiled and panted and shook his head.

"Well it was, but then I left to chase after an idiot who was being chased by an idiot with a knife. Oh, settle down," he said to the knife-man who was wriggling and protesting.

Sherlock looked at him.

"Want a hand?"

"Wouldn't mind."

Sherlock placed a foot over the man's neck.

"Sherlock! Don't be daft!"

"What? He's certainly gone very still now. Oh, OK, have it your way." Sherlock knelt at the other side of the man and held down on of his arms. He looked at John. John looked back.

"Angelo's? Really?" Sherlock said.

"It was last minute! It was the first place that came to mind!"

"Well, it was your date I suppose."

"_Is_ my date! I hope to be back there shortly!" He sighed. "I don't imagine she's waiting though."

"Then she's not good enough for you."

"What? You've never even met her!"

"If she won't wait around when her date chases down the road following a man following his flatmate, then she lacks imagination and therefore she's not good enough for you."

John laughed.

"OK, thanks. I'll remember that. Good."

"It's fine."

There were suddenly sirens and blue lights blazing and on the approach of several uniformed policemen, Sherlock and John relaxed and sat back.

"Want to share a cab back?" Sherlock asked.

"Don't you want to wait for Lestrade?"

"No. Fun part's done now. Come on." He stood and helped John get to his feet.

John sighed as the cab pulled up outside Angelo's. The table in the window where he'd been sitting was empty and was being cleared.

"I'd better go and get my coat and pay," he said. "I'll be back in a minute."

"I'll wait."


	3. Claire

Claire

John Watson was in something of a quandary about Claire.

On the one hand, they'd now been out on five dates. Five! He hadn't managed five dates with any one person since Sarah. Or possibly Jeanette. One of those early ones, anyway. Of course it had been fairly easy pre-Sherlock, but since Sherlock, five dates was something of a win.

In addition to that, he was very nearly almost sure that she was coming around to the idea of having sex with him! This was a very pleasant prospect.

In addition to that, Sherlock didn't yet hate her! Well, he hated her because she carelessly took up John's time, but John was used to this by now. He didn't yet hate her for any reason that was specific to her.

Of course he hadn't yet met her, but that was entirely beside the point.

So one the one hand, the one very nice and delightful hand, he had Claire, a person he'd managed to see five times, a person who seemed to be edging towards sex, and a person who was not hated by Sherlock. This was a hand he really, really liked, and he'd very much like to just focus on this hand and not notice any other hands at all.

Unfortunately, there was the uncomfortable, niggling doubt that there was another hand.

The other hand was this; he'd spent so much time focussing on not letting Sherlock hate Claire, that he wasn't really sure whether he liked her himself.

So far, there was nothing really to dislike, but he was struggling with something he couldn't quite define. Something that perhaps related to the bigger picture.

Claire read her star sign in the newspaper every day without fail. 'What's your star-sign?' had been the second question she'd asked John, before even getting as far as his name. Claire was quite superstitious about many things, and John was fairly sure he was happy with that. It was just a thing. It was just her personality. That's all it was, and there was no reason for anyone to judge her about it.

He'd decided quite quickly that he wouldn't be sharing this gem with Sherlock any time soon.

Claire had strong views about feminism. Again, this was fine, John had had no real reason to think about the many and varied aspects of feminism, but he could recognise that it was important to an awful lot of people, and on balance, he was generally 'pro'. However, Claire's opinion was that all women should embrace their femininity by finding a husband, raising a family, and taking the sole responsibility for the care of that family by being at home, and by being accessible to them at all times.

While could see certain, obvious advantages for him about Claire's ideal set up, he was also reasonably certain that feminism was actually about choice for the individual person. She'd once uttered a comment about working mothers 'letting the side down', and he'd fretted about it all evening.

He didn't quite know what Sherlock's opinion on this issue was, but he could guess it might be something like; all women are people, all people are stupid, therefore, all women are stupid. In addition, Claire was John's girlfriend, and therefore was doubly stupid.

He thought that he'd try to avoid letting them have the debate if possible.

Claire was a pacifist. Again, John didn't have too much of an issue with some people being against any form of violence, even apparently in self-defence, though he did feel they were ever so slightly delusional. He had little niggle at the back of his mind, which was there because he hadn't told Claire about his military past. He thought that if he said to her 'actually, I was a soldier, and I enjoyed it', the prospect of sex might be slightly reduced.

So he'd kept quiet.

He'd nodded and smiled and made listening noises while she told him all about those awful people who just like guns and fighting, and it's all films show these days, and little children are allowed to go into cinemas and the films that are advertised for them have fight scenes, and even people hitting each other, and the _little children see them!_ That's why there were riots in London, apparently.

They're all as bad as each other, apparently.

John had to admit that he might have zoned out for a little bit of her tirade.

Still; sex!

Possible, real, actual sex!

John believed that this was worthy of a big woot!

It had only been fourteen months, two weeks, and four days.

Not that he was counting.

So when they finished their meal this evening, and when Claire leaned across the table with what were unmistakably 'come to bed' eyes, John stared at her for a full five minutes while he overcame the urge to run up and down he street whooping with delight while waving his coat above his head.

"Er, shall we take a cab to your place?" he eventually asked.

There was another, tiny, flutter of her eyelashes, and John nearly wept.

"Yours is quite a lot closer, isn't it? I could come in for coffee, if you like."

This had floored him for a moment. He tried to think of the most appropriate way to say the sentence 'yes, but there's a six-foot sociopath in it.'

"I really don't mind travelling over to your place," he said.

There was a slight frown.

"But you're just on Baker Street, aren't you? It's not even a ten minute walk." She smiled again. "I'd quite fancy a ten minute walk in the fresh air. It'll probably loosen me up nicely."

John could swear his heart stopped for a full three seconds.

The frown returned with his hesitation, and he was suddenly smacked with the realisation that she was becoming suspicious that he was married.

He gave her a broad smile.

"My place it is then!"

He paid the bill, and held her coat as she put it on. She linked her arm through his, and John heard choirs of heavenly angels singing praises to everyone and everything.

He strolled happily along the road with her.

Tonight, was Sex Night.

He was certain of it.

He was almost giddy.

He panicked about protection.

He told himself to grow up, and calm down.

They arrived at the house, and he let them in.

"What a lovely building!" Claire said.

"Yes, it is, isn't it! Mrs Hudson owns it. She's our landlord."

He listened for signs of any suspicious activity and heard none. He breathed out and smiled at Claire again.

"What lovely wallpaper!" she said.

"Yes, isn't it! Shall we go upstairs?"

There was a sudden crash and a loud thump from upstairs. John pegged it up the stairs before he'd even finished processing it.

He burst through the living room door and there was Sherlock, on his knees, and an enormous man was looming over him with a walking stick raised above his head. Sherlock was chocking slightly. He'd quite clearly just escaped from being strangled.

John stormed in and used the advantage of surprise to land his first blow on the man's temple. His second blow went straight to the nose, stunning him. The third was to the solar plexus, and the man was suddenly on the floor. Sherlock staggered up to push the man flat to the ground, and he got him into a nice, efficient arm-lock.

"You OK?" John asked.

"Yeah. Should…" he broke off, coughing. "Should call Lestrade."

John nodded and took out his phone, and dialled Lestrade.

"Hi, Greg, er, we seem to have another one."

"Christ, John!"

"I know. Can you send someone round?"

"Does it have to be now?"

"Well, this one did try to kill Sherlock. We're holding him now."

Lestrade sighed.

"Fine, I'll come myself. I'll be there in ten."

John hung up. As he turned, he saw Claire. She was standing in the doorway, wide eyed, opened mouthed, and seemingly frozen in horror.

John lowered his phone again.

"Sorry, I know this looks bad…"

Claire breathed in and nodded.

"I'm not a naturally violent man," he started. Sherlock snorted behind him, but he rose above it. "It's just, well, there was an intruder in my house, attacking my friend."

Claire nodded again.

"Sorry," she said. "I think I was just a bit taken by surprise."

"I'm really sorry!" John said. The prospect of sex was looking less and less likely, but he didn't intend to let it go without a fight. "Look, let me make you a cup of tea. Or do you want something a little stronger?"

"Um…"

"I promise you, Claire, I don't go about beating people up! I really don't!" He smiled.

She smiled too.

"No, it's fine, John, really! Like I say, I was just surprised! Violence doesn't really count against them, does it!"

John frowned.

"Against intruders, you mean? You see, this is what I was meant when I was talking about self-defence!"

"No, not self-defence, silly!" She smiled, brightly. "Violence doesn't matter against those people. Because of their thick skins!"

John frowned and looked again at the intruder. He was baffled. The man was tall and well built, but he was elegantly dressed. He couldn't see any sign that he worked outside, or did any manual labour, or much physical training, or any signs why he might be more immune to violence than anyone else.

Sherlock looked at him.

"I think she means because of his thick, _black_ skin, John."

John took a deep breath and turned to Claire.

"Yes!" she said brightly. "They don't feel things like we do, do they!"

John reeled.

"Oh, OK. Oh." He reeled some more, and then gave her a huge, manic smile. "Actually, Claire, I think you'd better leave now."

Claire frowned.

"I honestly don't mind staying! I'm sure the policeman you called will take him away very soon, and then we can get on with the evening!"

There were those 'come to bed eyes' again. John felt the bile rise in his stomach.

"No. Leave now! Get out!" He gestured towards the door.

Claire's eyes almost popped with surprise.

"Oh, John, you're not one of those people _likes_ them, are you?"

John nodded, firmly.

"Yes. Yep, I'm one of _those_ people. Now get the hell out of my flat, before I really lose my temper! Seriously! Leave _now_!"

Claire gave one last, surprised look, and then she fled.

John slumped and sank. He fought the urge to march upstairs to hide in his bed. Instead he flopped down in Sherlock's armchair and let his chin sink to his chest.

"Bad luck," Sherlock said.

"Mm."

"I've said it before, John. You really need to start being a little more selective."

"Mm."

The sound of Lestrade's footfalls came up the staircase. He appeared in the doorway, followed by a uniformed Constable.

"What's happened?" he asked. "A young woman just dashed out, absolutely sobbing! What the hell did you say to her, Sherlock?"

"Me? I didn't say anything! John shouted at her."

Lestrade looked at John. John didn't move.

"Do you think someone could help me with Mr Davies here?" Sherlock said. "I don't like to make a fuss, but he is struggling quite hard."

The Constable came forward and snapped a nice pair of handcuffs on Mr Davies, and he started to lead him outside. Sherlock stood up and shook himself out a bit. He cleared his throat a few times and nodded at Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded back.

"You've cut your face there," he said. "Gash above your eyebrow."

Sherlock dabbed his hand at his face and looked at the blood.

"It doesn't need stitches," he said. "John'll fix it."

They looked at John again.

John didn't move.

"What's wrong with him?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know. I think it might be because he thought he was getting some sex, and then he didn't. He needs to be more particular, I think."

"Oh." Lestrade nodded.

Sherlock looked at him.

"Do me a favour and take him out for a drink or something, would you? I can't stand it when he gets all moopish like this. It's annoying."

"Yeah. OK."

"He'll be over it soon enough." Sherlock looked in the mirror and started dabbing his handkerchief to his eyebrow. "I'm sure Debbie or Donna or Delilah will be along next week, and he'll have forgotten all about Claire."


End file.
